She shrugged her shoulders, and put her brown arms akimbo. She was a grand figure so, in a cloak of black satin and a huge hat trimmed with crimson feathers.
“If you can’t trust him,” she said, “who can?”
“It is myself I am not to trust. Shameful! But that tiger will do me, yes, so I will not conquer him. It’s bad, very, very bad, is it not so? Shameful, but I will not do it!” he declared excitedly.
“What’s Barnabe say?”
“I do not care, Mr. Woolf can think what he can think! Damn Woolf! But for what I do think of my own self.... Ah!” He paused for a moment, dejected beyond speech. “Yes, miserable it is, in my own heart very shameful, Marie. And what you think of me, yes, that too!”
There was a note in his voice that almost confounded her—why, the man was going to cry! In a moment she was all melting compassion and bravado.
“You leave the devil to me, Yak. What’s come over you, man? God love us, I’ll tiger him!”
But the Dane had gone as far as he could go. He could admit his defeat, but he could not welcome her all too ready amplification of it.
“Na, na, you are good for him, Marie, but you beware. He is not a tiger; he is beyond everything, foul—he has got a foul heart and a thousand demons in it. I would not bear to see you touch him; no, no, I would not bear it!”
“Wait till I come back this afternoon—you wait!” cried Marie, lifting her clenched fist. “So help me, I’ll tiger him, you’ll see!”